


The Primitive Duality of Man

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jekyll and Hyde, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-01-19 01:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12400389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: "It was on the moral side, and in my own person, that I learned to recognise the thorough and primitive duality of man; I saw that, of the two natures that contended in the field of my consciousness, even if I could rightly be said to be either, it was only because I was radically both."-The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Robert Louis Stevenson





	1. Chapter 1

John’s eyes were angry, dangerous. Sherlock couldn’t say he was surprised. If there were any doubt in Sherlock’s mind as to John's emotional state when Sherlock came home to an empty flat, the kitchen covered in foam fresh enough that he could still hear the bubbles crackling, it was all eradicated when he saw the note stabbed into the mantle.

_Your bloody experiment exploded on me. Let me know when you’ve cleaned it up._

And if there had been any further doubt after that, the fact that John hadn’t been home in days clinched it. John was mad.

What did surprise him, however, was the beard. Thick and silken and fiery, it was more than most men could have grown in so many days. For a moment Sherlock considered gloating in his success--he had been looking for a hair growth formula after all, mostly to hang over the newly acquired bald spot on Mycroft’s head--but the glorious beard was likely responsible for a large portion of John’s anger.

“John,” Sherlock croaked. He cleared his throat. “Glad to have you home. I trust your stay at”--eyes bloodshot, shoulders tense--”Harry’s went well.”

Without a word, but with a low growl, John rushed around the kitchen table. He shoved aside Sherlock’s microscope, and before Sherlock could protest of the delicate nature of the equipment, he’d been dragged to his feet and shoved against the refrigerator.

“Now, John, I understand that you’re angry with me, but surely you needn’t resort to viol--”

The last of his words were swallowed up into John’s mouth; his hard, insistent mouth with unrelenting tongue licking at the seam of Sherlock’s, his beard prickly against Sherlock’s chin and upper lip.

Sherlock blinked, the rest of his body shocked into stillness. True, he’d considered similar situations in the past, generally in the privacy of his bedroom, but he’d never entertained the possibility of any of them happening. Especially not with such… force. It was too much for him to process at once.

John pulled away, and Sherlock expected that he would have to explain that he was only surprised, not uninterested, that John would be mortified, leaving Sherlock to stop him from leaving. But then he looked at John’s face, his eyes on Sherlock’s mouth, the buzzing skin around it, John’s tongue flicking at the corner of his own lips.

“Open your mouth,” John growled, and Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, whether from shock or as an automatic reaction to _those_ words from _that_ mouth, he couldn’t tell.

And he had no time to determine because John was back on him in a flash, tongue licking a long, slow swath from Sherlock’s lower lip, over his tongue, to his upper lip, where it left off with a flick. Sherlock had no choice but to react, knees going weak, a low moan bubbling up his throat and into John’s mouth with Sherlock’s tongue chasing it.

John’s hands slid down Sherlock’s chest, forcing his back to mold to the shape of the refrigerator, the steel cold through the thin fabric of his shirt, John’s rough hands peaking his nipples. Sherlock wanted to surge into the touch, drape their bodies together until they could stumble to some soft, flat surface. But John was having none of it. Every move of Sherlock’s body was dictated by John’s. His thumbs hooked into the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers, a teasing scrape of nails against his hips before John yanked them down.

God, did John not realize Sherlock was still wearing a belt? All that did was startle Sherlock, making him yelp, making his teeth knock into John’s lower lip, making his cheeks blaze. But John did it again, a hard jerk, and this time Sherlock jolted down the slick steel, feet sliding from under him. He scrabbled for purchase against the appliance, but then John’s hands were around his wrists, pinning them to his sides, with most of Sherlock’s weight bearing down on John’s thigh.

Sherlock got his feet under him, prepared to take some of his own weight, but John’s grip tightened around his wrists. He snapped his teeth at the sensitive juncture of Sherlock’s jaw and neck before snarling in Sherlock’s ear, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Sherlock hadn’t realized it was possible for John to move closer, but he did, turning Sherlock’s breathing reedy, whether from restriction to his lungs or the exquisite pressure on his groin was impossible to say. His hips thrusted, hard and sharp, against Sherlock’s, his mouth laying a series of bruising bites and kisses along Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock was in heaven, though he usually preferred gentler fantasies in his private time unless he had to bang out a quick orgasm after John left for the shops looking good enough to eat. And to think, all this time John had been the one wanting to devour _him_. Oh, it was a heady feeling. He felt like he was floating. John even smelled different somehow. More manly.

Sherlock let his head loll against John’s as pain and pleasure bloomed on his neck, as his confined cock pulsed in his trousers. He took a deep breath through his nose, taking in the scent of John’s hair, burying his face in it. God, he was going to come in his pants.

“John,” he whined against John’s temple, and just like that, John was gone.

Sherlock stumbled, caught himself on the worktop, but before he could put himself to rights, John had him by the belt, dragging him to the bedroom.

Sherlock was barely through the door before John kicked it closed. He gave Sherlock’s belt a tug towards the bed. Sherlock stumbled, and when he looked back, John was already ripping the checked button-up from his shoulders. He could see hair through John’s white t-shirt, and he trembled. He couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Had he fallen asleep at the microscope? He swung his arms behind him as if he were at parade rest and gave the inside of his forearm a pinch.

Nope, not a dream. At the absolute certainty of reality, adrenaline zinged through him with such force that it made him shake.

John kicked off his shoes. “What are you waiting for? Strip.”

Sherlock rushed to comply, unbuckling his belt and pulling down his trousers before he’d even thought to take off his shoes. _Shit._ Why hadn’t he taken them off when he got back from Barts? That had been hours ago.

His arse hit the side of the bed with more force than intended, and then he was ripping at the laces, feeling an urgency that wasn’t entirely arousal. What was it? Fear? Anxiety?

He tossed his shoes under the chair by the wardrobe, trousers following suit a moment later.

Was he afraid that John would change his mind? Or was he afraid that he himself would change his mind?

Shaky fingers struggling with his shirt buttons, Sherlock had no more time to consider as John pounced on him. Naked. Straddling his thighs. Ripping open the shirt. Buttons pinging a pizzicato. He even tried to tear away Sherlock’s pants, but when they did not immediately give way, he growled, hopping off the bed like a wild thing and snapping Sherlock’s pants down his legs, where the momentum flew them across the room.

Sherlock was agog. Where had this ferocity come from? And why did it turn him on so much?

Because in the time since he’d rubbed himself against John’s thigh--or, that wasn’t quite right, was it--his erection hadn’t flagged one bit. If anything, the blood flow was greater, throbbing, and as John lifted Sherlock’s feet to shove him fully on the bed, it jerked and sent forth a sluggish drop of precome.

“Oh. You’re gagging for it, aren’t you?” John stalked around the bed like he was trying to decide which part of Sherlock to eat first. “Tell me you want it.”

Sherlock flinched. “What?”

And just like that, John’s mouth was on his ear, his hand fisted in Sherlock’s hair. “Tell me. You want it.”

Sherlock swallowed, body eager to comply, but he was still Sherlock Holmes. “And if I don’t?”

“I’ll leave. You can take care of that”--he nodded to Sherlock’s groin--”yourself.”

Sherlock tried to arch his back to get a better look at John’s face, to reach for a kiss, but John’s hand in his hair stopped him. _Oh_. Sherlock’s toes curled.

John’s fist clenched. “Like a bit of hair pulling, do we?”

Sherlock swallowed hard, licked his lips. “Apparently.”

“Oh, we are going to have such fun, Sherlock.” John let go of Sherlock’s hair, running his fingers over Sherlock’s scalp then tracing the shell of his ear. “Once you say what I want to hear.”

“I want it,” Sherlock blurted.

The bed jostled and squeaked by Sherlock’s head as John vaulted up to his feet. His cock was just visible over Sherlock’s forehead. All Sherlock had to do was push himself a little farther, dangle his head over the edge, and he could have John in his mouth. His mouth watered, and he licked his lips, one heel planted on the duvet to slide himself over, but then John stepped back, pivoted on his heel.

“Hands and knees. Face the wall.”

Sherlock did as asked, but he kept his eyes on John, on the authoritative way he paced at the foot of the bed, his fingers stroking his beard, his eyes assessing, jaw clenched.

“Farther apart.”

Sherlock’s knees slid apart, and somehow, just that act made him feel so exquisitely dirty that his fingers clenched in the sheets. His cock and balls hung heavy beneath him, exposed and vulnerable to John. He felt like he was on display, not like a museum artifact or piece of art, like a side of beef in the window of a butcher’s. 

It was true. He could see it now. This encounter would consume him. John was going to break him down and stitch him back together, and their life would never be the same. This wasn’t sex, this was a paradigm shift. No, it was the world tilting on its axis. What if it went badly? What if John regretted it? What if he expected this kind of obedience outside the bedroom?

John’s beard slid up the small of Sherlock’s back, lips and tongue sneaking out occasionally for a caress or a taste, raising goosebumps along Sherlock’s spine, hardening his nipples. John hummed low in his throat, his chest now pressing against Sherlock’s buttocks, sliding up and up and up. Sherlock had to open his mouth to breathe properly, his breath fast and shallow. The vibrations of John’s voice and the silky prickle of his beard were now at Sherlock’s neck, sending fresh cascades of gooseflesh and shivers down Sherlock’s body. His cock settled between Sherlock’s thighs, bumping his scrotum.

Sherlock felt a prickle of teeth on his shoulder. “Wait.”

John acquiesced, laving the area where his teeth just were. “Don’t want to mar your perfect skin?” His hand slid over Sherlock’s shoulder and around his neck, gently, but Sherlock still felt the possessive threat. “It’s a bit late for that.”

Sherlock bit his lip, closed his eyes, body breaking into a new bout of shakes. He’d never experienced such an adrenaline rush outside a case, where his body had no choice but to let it overtake him. He couldn’t run or fight his way out of it, though he wondered what would happen if he were to lash out. Would John balk? Apologize? Flee? Or would he fight back?

Brief pressure on Sherlock’s carotid arteries had his eyes flying open.

“You told me to wait. Why?”

Sherlock turned his head and shifted under John’s weight until he could get a good look at John’s face. “Are you certain this is what you want?”

John pressed his hips against Sherlock’s arse. Circling. Grinding. “What does that feel like?”

Sherlock wanted to bring his thighs together, trap John’s cock there just to feel it pulse against his skin, but even if he tried, John’s weight bearing down would prevent it. Besides, it would be grossly off topic.

“That is only indicative of libido. What does the rest of you feel?”

John’s teeth scraped over the base of Sherlock’s neck. “I’ve wanted this for years.”

Sherlock shivered. “Why now?”

“I woke up.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock woke the next morning alone. He didn’t know when John had left, though the side John ended up on was cold. He didn’t even know if John had slept in here. He’d been a bit out of it at the time, after rocketing to an orgasm that almost made him pass out.

His neck and shoulders ached, certainly speckled with bruises, not to mention the beard burn between his thighs and buttocks. But it was fine. Every twinge as he moved reminded him of the night before. He could cope with all kinds of aches and pains in the name of sex with John. Though, he wasn’t sure one could call what he was doing, coping. Was it really coping if he was enjoying it this much?

With one final stretch, Sherlock gathered the sheet around him and padded into the kitchen, where John, freshly showered in jeans and a white t-shirt, was spreading jam on a slice of toast.

“I made coffee.” John cocked his head and elbow towards the coffee maker.

Sherlock yawned, reaching for the kettle. “This is more of a tea morning, don’t you think?”

“Right.” John paused, licked a bit of jam from the knife. “Yeah.”

Sherlock blinked. “You shaved.”

John’s hand went reflexively to his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling for a moment. “Yeah, I do most mor… What happened to you?”

Sherlock was taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

John tugged at the sheet by Sherlock's neck, his mouth agape. “Your neck. And, oh my God, your shoulders too? They're bruised to all hell, Sherlock.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Are you surprised?”

“Yes, I’m surprised. What have you been doing?” John tugged him to the table by the wrist and sat him down. “Here. Let me look at that.”

Sherlock's brows furrowed. “What are you on about?”

John huffed, plopping the first aid kit to the table. “I know you like to play it fast and loose with your health, but these are… Are these bite marks?”

“Don't you remember?”

“Remember wh--” John deflated, hiding his eyes behind his hand, middle finger and thumb pressed to each temple. “Oh my God. I knew I had too much to drink last night. What happened?”

“What?” Sherlock spun in the chair, trying to get a read on John's face, but the only thing there was mortification. 

“I went for a pint with Stamford last night, and we stayed to watch some footy. And, well, there were shots. I definitely remember shots. Like I was at university or something. I don't know what I was thinking.”

Sherlock's eyelids narrowed. “So you’re telling me…”

“I blacked out. I don't remember anything past the match. I didn't know where I was when I woke up this morning.”

No, that couldn't be right. Sherlock hadn't smelled alcohol on him. His speech hadn't slurred. He had no trouble with balance, no sloppiness to his movements. He’d been precise. Every part of him. And Sherlock hadn't imagined it. He squeezed his thighs together and clenched his buttocks. Yes, that was definitely beard burn. He wore the evidence of John all over his body, and John didn't remember? It wasn't possible.

Sherlock felt the cold fist of dread close around his heart, but he kept his face impassive. He wrapped his sheet more tightly around himself and walked to his chair, leaving John and his care behind. As he sat, hands folded beneath his chin, he asked, “What’s the last thing you remember from last night?”

John ran his hand through his damp hair, blowing a breath through his cheeks. “I remember the football match. I remember saying goodbye to Stamford and grabbing my mobile to call a cab.” John looked down at his left hand, curled as if it held a phone. His tongue swept over his mouth, tugging his bottom lip into his mouth. He released it with a click. 

“That’s it. I can't remember anything else until waking up. I mean, I hadn't intended to come home until I was sure the kitchen was back in one piece, but--” John patted at his hips, sliding his hands over his buttocks. “Did I have my phone when I came home last night?”

God, it was hard to watch John knowing what all those casual body parts had done to him last night. In fact, it took him far too long to realize that he'd been asked a question, and even longer to decipher it and take his chewed cuticle out of his mouth.

Sherlock shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Damn.” John crossed to the coat hangers, digging for his jacket pockets.

“So”--Sherlock gestured to his bruises--”these don't ring any bells for you.”

“Sorry. Why? What happened?”

If John was pretending to not remember in order to save face somehow, he was a much better actor than Sherlock had known. But it was the only explanation that made any sense. He’d clearly not been drunk the night before. He hadn't seemed impaired in any way. And even now, his skit for all intents and purposes over, he was still searching his pockets with no inkling of self-consciousness. He wasn't taking surreptitious glances or doing anything else that would suggest a desire to know whether Sherlock bought the act. Besides, was John really capable of such a cruel deception?

Sherlock sat back with a huff. Too little data. He waved it all away to explore on another day, when he could unearth more. “It doesn't matter.”

“Well, if you ever want to tell me who did that to you, I’d happily kick his arse.” John trotted up the stairs, calling down, “Will you call my phone?”

Sherlock waded back to his room, and there it was. John’s mobile. On the floor by the bed. One more small reminder that Sherlock hadn't lost his mind. But, it meant a decision. Did he tell John where his phone was and raise new questions, or did he hide it to preserve the status quo?

People did all sorts of things when they were drunk that they later regretted, and Sherlock was not about to confirm that he was one of them.

He hid the mobile in the loo and pressed send on his own.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock stood at the window, plucking idly at his violin. He’d considered bringing it to his shoulder to play, but he hadn't wanted to wake John. John, who after a full week remained a conundrum. He still lacked sufficient data to make a hypothesis of what exactly happened the week before and why John couldn't remember it.

Because if anything had become clear in this week of confusion, it was that John surely didn't remember. No amount of cuing had produced results. 

He’d fixed a cup of tea two days after the event, offering it to John.

“Cheers,” John had said, but Sherlock didn't hand it over.

“Tell me you want it.”

Nothing. Not even a spot of color. He just stated, “Well, that’s a bit rude,” and went on with his morning.

Sherlock had slammed the tea to the table, and it sloshed over the sides and onto his fingers. And John didn't even take notice of Sherlock licking them clean.

He’d stood against the refrigerator. He’d tugged and fiddled with his belt. He’d even sewn the buttons back to his shirt in plain view of John.

Nothing. No one was that good of an actor.

At the same time, Sherlock could see no physiological reason why John might lose his memory. Mycroft had pulled John's medical records years ago, and he would have mentioned any history of mental illness or amnesia. And John was showing no signs of suffering from a brain injury. Because it hadn't been alcohol. Sherlock would have smelt it. He’d have never slept with John if he’d suspected even an iota that John could be drunk.

They’d had a case the past few days, and Sherlock thought he’d caught moments where, if nothing else, some evidence of his desire would bubble to the surface. A lick of the lips as Sherlock crouched and crawled. Guiding Sherlock by the hips when the shoulder would have sufficed.

And just this evening, John had pressed Sherlock against the wall of an alley, cupping his hand over Sherlock's mouth as their suspect ran by. He could feel John’s racing heart against his chest, the way his thigh slotted against Sherlock's, and Sherlock had almost let his legs spread, let the thigh encroach. John had pulled his hand away after a moment, but he’d kept their bodies together, and though it had been hard to tell in the low light, Sherlock was sure John’s eyes were on his lips. Something incendiary flashed between them.

But then John had stepped back, cleared his throat. “I think he’s gone.”

Sherlock had straightened his clothing, squared his shoulders. “Quite right.”

He’d hoped to confront the issue when they arrived home. If he could confirm that a John of clear mind still wanted him, perhaps he could finally inform John of what happened. And maybe they could do it again. But John, experiencing the catastrophic crash after an exhausted body meets a prolonged adrenaline rush, had stumbled up to his own room, and he was snoring by the time Sherlock hung up his coat.

A screech like a rusty hinge pulled Sherlock from his reverie, and he spun towards the sound. He saw nothing, just the light from the street lamps glinting off the glass apparati in the kitchen and the blackened hallway to the bedroom. But he definitely heard something.

Sherlock set the violin and bow in their case and swept his way to the landing. John’s door was closed, and though Sherlock could hear no snoring, he had no reason to believe John had made that noise. Perhaps Mrs Hudson had opened a drawer in the foyer. Or it may have just been the building’s component parts shrinking at different rates as they cooled. He’d been too engrossed in his own thoughts to know for sure what the sound was, and he had more pressing mysteries to explore at the moment. So, he returned to his place by the window, fingers tapping at the glass as he sorted once again through John’s actions of the past seven days.

He’d barely started when a body moulded itself to his rear, and though Sherlock stiffened at first, it was the work of a moment to realize the body behind him belonged to John. Sherlock melted into the embrace as John’s hands roamed his thighs through the sheet.

“You wear this just to drive me crazy, don’t you?”

Sherlock smirked, running his fingertips over the backs of John’s hands. “I didn't before, but I certainly will now.”

John chuckled, and it dripped with sex. His hands slid to the backs of Sherlock's thighs, where he gathered the sheet up in his fists. Sherlock felt the cold air hitting his calves, raising the hair there. He trembled with anticipation, but it wasn't right. Something didn't add up.

“Have you remembered?” Sherlock asked as John pressed between his shoulder blades. He leaned over, balancing himself on the window ledge.

“I don't know how I could forget.” John’s fingers skated up the part of Sherlock's leg still covered by the sheet, following his gluteal fold with one finger tip.

Sherlock shivered. “But you did.”

“Well”-- John slid his finger up and down Sherlock’s cleft, just enough pressure to tickle--”surely you can forgive me enough to let me fuck you into oblivion.”

Sherlock bit back a moan. He wouldn't give John the satisfaction. Not yet. “When did you remember?”

John pushed the sheet up and over Sherlock's hips, helping Sherlock to arch his back until the gathered fabric had a dip to balance on. He pressed Sherlock’s cheeks apart. “Only a few minutes ago, when I woke up.”

Sherlock pressed himself against John’s hands. Some part of him still wanted an explanation, but it was quickly being taken over by the part that had yearned for John since the moment he woke up six days ago. He’d loved the feeling of being vulnerable in John’s hands, a feeling of safe danger that compared to nothing else. The bizarre way being manhandled made him feel cherished.

“Look at you. Gagging for it already. I could put it in you now, and you’d love it.”

Sherlock's legs shook at the idle threat, his cock throbbing. At least, he thought it was an idle threat, but curiosity, as always, got the better of him. He had to know if it was a bluff.

He shoved himself backwards. “Do it.”

John’s hands left Sherlock's buttocks, and Sherlock heard the crack of an opening lid. Oh God, he was going to do it. Was he going to do it? Did Sherlock want him to do it?

John’s boxers landed at Sherlock's feet. Despite his best efforts, Sherlock quaked. He knew John would stop if he said no, but he didn't know if he wanted to say no. The fear of pain warred with the excitement of discovery, and the glorious anticipation of experiencing the exquisite pressure of John’s cock inside him again. The way he could work Sherlock's prostate like a finely tuned instrument. (Any doubt whether John had ever been with men before was certainly obliterated on that day.)

John shuffled up behind him. Skin on skin. Scrotum against buttocks. Cock against coccyx. A slick thumb circled Sherlock's anus.

Sherlock pushed up one shoulder, turning. “Wh--”

John grabbed the hair at Sherlock's crown to face him forward. “Eyes front, soldier.” The thumb kept circling. “Watch out the window. I want everyone who looks up to know what your face looks like when you’re getting fucked.”

“Oh, _God._ ”

“You like that, do you?” John shifted his hips, and blunt force pushed slowly past his sphincter.

Sherlock took a deep breath, bracing for pain. But wait, that was--Sherlock drew a tiny circle with his hips--fingers. Two fingers. A bit much to start with, but that was fine. Brilliant, actually.

“Oh, that’s…” Sherlock groaned.

John chuckled, crooking his fingers inside, making Sherlock's hips kick. “Did you really think I wouldn't wreck you before I fucked you?”

Sherlock couldn't respond. He’d already lost all power of speech, his focus entirely shifted to John’s fingers working his prostate and the empty street below.

“That's good, Sherlock. Watch.” John rubbed himself against Sherlock's arse, his cock hot and thick and dripping. Sherlock could feel the warm, wet lines evaporating from his skin. God, he wanted to taste it. He licked his lips, mouth open, tongue slow, sure that John could see it reflected in the window though he couldn't make out John’s face in it. He could barely catch the street lamps glinting in his eyes.

He pushed his arse against John’s cock. “Please.”

“Oh yeah, you want it, don't you?” John slipped his fingers free to rub his glans where they had been.

It wasn't what Sherlock had in mind, but now that it was there, he could think of nothing better. “ _Yes._ ”

The crack of the cap. John moved away, but then he was back again, hot and slick and pushing forward. So slow. Sherlock could feel the incremental stretch, the burn made pleasurable when John guided Sherlock's hand to his own cock, and Sherlock began to stroke. He could feel the slight relaxation as John’s corona slipped past the muscle, and then it was just pressure, an ache like stretching a sore muscle, objectively painful, but so so good.

John rocked inside him, and Sherlock's focus narrowed down to everywhere John touched him, the slide and push against his prostate, the growing tension in his groin. He grunted with every push of John’s hips, rocking back with them, forgetting all about the street and the sheet until the sheet slipped to the floor. His nipples hardened, and at the shock of his own nakedness and the drunk young man rounding the corner, he came.

He propped himself on the windowsill, forehead pressed to the glass as he recovered. John slipped out, and Sherlock listened uselessly to the slick slap of skin on skin until John came over his back and buttocks.

John’s palms rubbed over Sherlock's skin where he’d left stripes of semen. “Leave these.”

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes and laying his cheek against the cold window. “All right.”

A moment later, he felt the sheet drape over him, John rubbing his palms down Sherlock's flanks, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's back.

“Are you going to bed?” John asked.

“Possibly. Will you be joining me?”

John sighed, standing, dropping his hands. “I wish I could.”

Of course. John still had nightmares. He didn't want to risk unwittingly hurting Sherlock. Still, it was a disappointment.

John’s heavy footfalls retreated up the stairs.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock woke the next morning on cloud nine. The ache between his legs didn't quite compare to the beard burn, but until he convinced John to grow it out again, it would have to do. And he’d have to get John to do something about the bruises on his neck. They’d almost completely faded. Which hadn't been such a bad thing when John didn't remember, but now that he had, they needed some refreshing.

To that end, Sherlock wrapped himself in his sheet, checked to make sure it was draped as artfully as possible, and sauntered into the kitchen. John was there already, sitting over a coffee and the paper, looking haggard.

Sherlock ruffled John’s hair on the way to the coffee pot. “Rough night?”

John grunted a chuckle. “You could say that.”

Sherlock poured himself a cup of coffee and turned to face John as he blew over the top, eyes locked on John. John sat back and swallowed, eyes wide.

Sherlock smirked. “Yes, I suppose it was a bit rough, but as we’ve discovered, that’s the way I like it.”

“Yes, well, my body’s a bit older than yours, so I could go for a little less rough and tumble.” John flipped a page of the paper and sipped his coffee. So casual.

“Does that mean no chance for a round two this morning?”

“No,” John laughed. “I need a few days rest before we take another one.”

That was odd phrasing. And a few days? That seemed a bit scant for new lovers. Something was wrong here.

Sherlock reviewed the exchange. _Oh my God_. “What are you talking about?”

“The case.” John’s brows furrowed and his head cocked back. “Why? What are you talking about?”

Sherlock slammed his coffee to the table, splashing hot coffee over his wrist. He hissed. “Are you joking?!”

John reached for Sherlock's hand. “Are you burnt?”

Sherlock clasped his hand to his chest, keeping it out of John’s reach as he dabbed the coffee from his wrist with the sheet. “Don't touch it!”

“At least let me look.”

“No.” Sherlock pulled his hands through his hair. It didn't make sense! “I can't take it.”

John huffed, leaning over the table to reach for Sherlock's hand. “If it hurts that much--”

“No. Don't be an idiot. It’s not the bloody burn!” Sherlock shouted. “Either you're faking, which is far worse than anything of which I’d thought you capable, or the experience is so traumatic that you’ve blocked it. Which is it? Tell me now, or leave.”

John shook his head, entire face agape. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh, piss off,” Sherlock bit and stormed off to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

***

Several minutes later, Sherlock threw open the door. “Do you have a history of somnambulism?”

John jumped. “No.”

“What about night terrors?”

“I don’t think--” John spun in his chair. “What the hell is this about?”

“Could I do a sleep study on you?”

“No. Why are you asking these questions, Sherlock?”

“Why not? It won’t inconvenience you. All I’m asking is for you to let me watch you sleep, and perhaps monitor your brain activity, for a night or two.”

“Jesus.” John pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are not doing either of those things without telling me why.”

Sherlock chewed his bottom lip. “If I tell you why, will you do it?”

“I’m not agreeing to anything without an explanation.”

Sherlock sighed, long and loud. “You and I had inter… actions late at night that you didn’t remember the next morning. Twice now.”

“What sort of interactions?”

Sherlock was ready to tear his hair out. Why wouldn’t John just agree? “Does it matter?”

“Of course it does!”

Sherlock flushed. “No it doesn’t.”

John threw up his hands. “Then the answer’s no. I have to get to the surgery.”

He dumped the remains of his coffee in the sink, threw on his jacket, grabbed his keys, and trotted down the stairs and out the door. Meanwhile, Sherlock fidgeted. He couldn’t tell John until he knew what his reaction would be, but he couldn’t figure out what was wrong unless John let Sherlock do the study. He supposed he could sneak into John’s room after he fell asleep and sneak back out before he woke, but that was quite a risk. If John discovered him, who knew how he would react, especially after giving him an unequivocal no?

Sherlock wandered to the window to watch John’s retreating form until he disappeared around the corner.

There was one way. He couldn’t completely avoid the consequences of revelation, but he could shield himself from the initial shock. He could give John time to contemplate or perhaps work through any anger before Sherlock had to be subject to it.

He waited twenty minutes before picking up his mobile.

_We had anal intercourse. SH_

And he immediately shut it off.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock felt fingers in his hair. He wasn’t sure if he’d fallen asleep on the sofa or just gotten lost in his mind palace, but this was certainly a pleasant way to surface.

He hummed. “What time is it?”

John ran his nails over Sherlock’s scalp. “Noon.”

Sherlock opened his eyes only to have John clap his hand over them. “What are you doing?”

“Keep them closed.”

Sherlock’s heart jumped, the sense memory of John’s tone of voice kicking off a clear hormonal response, making him yearn. But he wasn’t about to let his body take over; he still had beef, though he did do as asked. “Don’t you have something to say to me?”

John traced two fingers over Sherlock’s bottom lip. “I want your mouth.”

Sherlock gasped, which had the unintended consequence of letting John’s fingers in. Despite the temptation to suck or lick, Sherlock pulled them away. “It’s not that easy.” He opened his eyes. “You can’t--”

Sherlock jumped. Before his thoughts could catch up, his body launched off the sofa, landing in a crouch by the arm. The beard. John had the beard. It wasn’t possible, and yet, there it was. For a moment, he wondered if he couldn’t trust his senses--if this wasn’t an example of John losing memories but rather was Sherlock hallucinating--but then the pieces slotted together like the gears of a Swiss watch.

The out-of-character behaviour. The memory loss. The impossible hair growth.

“You’re not John.”

Not-John sat on the coffee table, crossing his arms. “Yes, I am.”

Sherlock bit his lips to keep back the words that wanted to explode from him. Who knew what whoever this was, who represented himself as John to fuck Sherlock, was capable of? “Don’t lie to me.”

“I am John. I’m more John than the person you’ve known all these years.”

“Bullshit.” Sherlock leapt over the arm of the chair to the floor, striding away, pacing. What was happening here? It wasn’t just dissociation; that wouldn’t explain the hair.

“You were the best man, and the most human, human being that I’ve ever known, and no one will convince me that you told--”

“Stop it!” Sherlock spun on Not-John. “Don’t you dare use those words.”

Not-John stood, mounting the coffee table and stepping down in Sherlock’s path. “Ask yourself, Sherlock. Who else heard them?”

Sherlock chewed his lip. “You share John's memories.”

“I don’t share his memories,” he growled. “I’ve always been there. Who do you think think shot a man to save your life? Who punched a chief superintendent of police when he insulted you?”

“Who choked and headbutted me and kicked me in the ribs?”

Not-John’s gaze fell to the floor, his fists clenching and releasing. He licked his frown.

Sherlock pulled himself tall, staring down his nose. “Good to know you feel remorse.”

“Yeah, well…” Not-John scratched his beard, refusing to make eye contact. “Do you believe me now?”

“You can’t just _be_ John. John didn’t have a beard when he left this morning. Plus you behave differently, and John doesn’t remember anything you do.” Sherlock stepped back, pressing his fingers together in front of his face. “You’re something else… Some unmanifested part of John, perhaps?” He took a sharp breath through his nose, going for the desk. “Tell me, do you remember anything that John… the other John has done since you… manifested?”

“No.”

Sherlock plunked a pen and paper on John’s side of the desk, gesturing to it.

“What’s that for?”

Sherlock rapped at it. “Handwriting sample. ‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog’ will do. And a signature.” He pushed past not-John to get to the kitchen. “And I’ll need some samples.”

Not-John sat and picked up the pen. “I believe you’ll find plenty of that on your sheets.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Not semen. John has not been amenable to providing samples of that in the past.” He found a couple specimen bags, a swab, and a test tube. “I need saliva, a hair from your head, and a hair from your beard, roots intact. Do you need a tweezer?”

Not-John scoffed. “What will that do?”

“It will help me determine if there are any genetic differences between you and”--he gestured up and down John’s body--”you.” Sherlock tapped his fingers against his hips, tugged his trousers into place. “Now, what else; what else?”

“You know.” Not-John tapped the end of the pen against his lips. “It’s very distracting, you doing that.”

“What? Focus, Joh-- No-- What do I call you?”

“Call me by my name.” Not-John went back to writing.

“No. Until we can determine exactly what you are, I will not be calling you John.”

Not-John scribbled furiously, ending with a flourish, and faced the paper to Sherlock. “How about now?”

Sherlock crouched in front of the paper to inspect it. The handwriting was similar, though he’d have to get John to write the same words to determine for sure, but the signature was exact. It showed none of the hesitation of a forgery. Besides, Sherlock had seen not-John sign it. Even if this wasn’t John, there was a lot of John in him.

“You are so sexy when you deduce.”

Sherlock ripped the paper from not-John’s hand, putting them face to face. “Do you think about anything else?”

“Occasionally. Food, fun, finding you a risky case so I can punch a criminal in the nose. But then, I suppose that puts us back to how sexy you are when you work.”

Sherlock scoffed, though he felt his cheeks heating nonetheless. “I suppose in your mind, that makes you John’s id.”

Not-John crossed his arms, spreading his legs as he settled in his chair. “That sounds awfully reductive. I’m the John that he couldn’t admit he wanted to be.”

“Then you’re his Tyler Durden.”

Not-John grinned. “Look at you with the pop culture references.”

Sherlock shrugged, feeling flattered despite his best efforts. “John made me watch it.”

“I remember. You secretly wanted to make soap out of human fat afterwards.”

Sherlock smirked. “Who says I didn’t?”

Not-John smiled back, and Sherlock felt a buzz in his lips and fingertips. He folded a sharp crease into the paper John signed to distract himself. It wouldn’t do to let any feelings for John bubble up with this… simulacrum. It didn’t help that not-John was tugging the paper from Sherlock’s hands, bringing them up to his face, his beard tickling Sherlock’s palms.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

“Go on.” Not-John slid his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “Tell me you don’t feel it.” He traced the tip of his nose along the side of Sherlock’s, his lips ghosting against Sherlock’s as he spoke. “Deep down you know it’s me.”

Sherlock was a weak man. The sense memory of John’s body against his, the silken prickle of John’s beard against his skin, John’s breath on his face--it overwhelmed him. He couldn’t think through the haze of bone-deep yearning, and he fell into John’s mouth. It was delicious. John’s mouth tasted of coffee and tea and biscuits, and he smelled like home. His body was sturdy, his arms enveloping, his mouth soft, his breath warm. Sherlock’s mouth buzzed from the brush of lips, the scrape of teeth, the drag of facial hair.

He found his feet moving backwards, compelled by the movements of John’s body, until his back hit something. He couldn’t quite orient himself enough to know whether it was the door to the stairs or the wall between the door and the kitchen, but he quickly decided it didn’t matter. He had John’s face in his hands. Their tongues were stroking against each other. Their bodies were pressed together. He was drowning in it. Every contact, even through clothes, was exquisite. John’s focus was entirely on him, on their shared pleasure, and Sherlock was determined to give that back to him.

He refused to think about anything else.

John’s teeth nipped at Sherlock’s chin, his nose nudging like an eager puppy’s until Sherlock tilted his head, giving him access to sink in his teeth. Sherlock hissed, jumping at the shock of pain before leaning into it. The bite was over an old one, almost completely faded, and the mix of the old and new ache sent shivers down Sherlock’s body, sent the blood to his cock so quickly that he went lightheaded.

John’s hands pressed their way down Sherlock’s chest, pausing for a moment to pinch his nipples through his shirt before tickling over his abdominals. And then his hands were ripping at Sherlock’s belt, tearing open the button and zip. All the while, his teeth bit a path over Sherlock’s neck and clavicle. Then, with a growl, John spun Sherlock to face the wall--the one by the kitchen, after all--and shoved Sherlock’s pants and trousers down his hips.

He kneaded Sherlock’s buttocks, pressed them apart. “Do you think you can take me again so soon?”

Sherlock couldn’t answer. He just rested his forehead on his forearm, pressed his arse back, and groaned.

John’s teeth scraped against Sherlock’s spine through his shirt. “Always one to dive in headfirst, aren’t you?”

Sherlock heard a wet smack and then felt John’s slick thumb slide over his hole. _God_.

“But maybe, first, I should kiss it better. Hmm?”

“Oh, God.” Sherlock bit his own forearm, muffling the sounds coming from his mouth, struggling to gain some control of himself. This had happened the first time, as well, and just the memory threatened to make Sherlock come. 

John’s knees hit the floor, and then, with no preamble, he dove in. His mouth was wide open, his tongue sweeping in long stripes, suction and lips and whiskers. God, it was so much. He couldn’t fathom how he had dismissed the idea of pain during sex. They had seemed disparate sensations, separate ends of a spectrum, but they combined into something dazzling. He found himself pushing back against John’s mouth, willing a rougher touch though his mouth refused to form the words to ask for it.

But John could read Sherlock’s body like braille, and he shook his head back and forth like a dog with a bone. It lit Sherlock’s skin on fire. His fingers grasped at the wall. His breath came in pants when he wasn’t moaning or wordlessly begging. His forehead pressed to his forearm. His forearms slid down the wall, pushing his hips back, opening him up to John’s onslaught.

John broke away, and Sherlock could feel his breath rushing over his buttocks. “Is the lube in the usual place?”

Sherlock had no idea. He couldn’t think. “I… Probably.”

John gave Sherlock’s arse a squeeze and a smack. “Don’t move.”

Sherlock listened to John’s receding footsteps, basking in the glow, but without the onslaught of sensation, his thoughts got stuck. Who was it that had just buried his face in Sherlock’s bum? Was there enough evidence to believe this truly was John? And if he let himself believe without questioning for the duration of the encounter, what would that mean? Could he look the John from this morning in the eye?

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock pulled up his pants and trousers, refastening them as he hobbled over to the desk. He’d have to find a way to confirm who was truly John, if either of them were, and until then, he’d have to find a way for them to live together.

When John--or not-John, whoever he was--exited the bedroom, Sherlock had already pulled a fresh sheet of paper and an envelope from the desk.

“It wasn’t…” John paused mid-stride. “What is this?”

Sherlock stared straight ahead. If he met John’s eyes, he might lose his will power (at least until his erection had flagged completely). “You are going to write a note to the”--what would be the proper term?--”other you explaining the situation.”

John huffed, and a moment later, he flopped into the chair opposite, his mouth still shiny with saliva. He wiped it with the back of his hand. “You still don’t believe me.”

“It’s not a matter of be--”

“What makes it so difficult, Sherlock? Is it because I fucked you?”

It felt like a punch to the gut. “John has never shown any inclin--”

“God.” John slammed his hands down on the desk. “I’ve loved you for fucking years, Sherlock, and he wouldn’t let me. He’s a facade. He’s a coward. He’s too scared to go after wha--”

“For God’s sake, stop it!” Sherlock shouted. “Sit down and write the God-damned note. It doesn’t matter to me who is the real John and who’s not until I can find the proof.”

“Liar. You know who I am.”

“No, I don’t.”

“He’s not--”

Sherlock held up a finger. “The very fact that you refer to John in the third person casts doubt on your claim, so you will sit down, shut up, and write the letter. I’ll tie you to the chair if I have to.”

John arched an eyebrow, but he sat and picked up the pen. “Kinky.”

“Shut up.”


	6. Chapter 6

John—the clean-shaven one—returned home a little past his normal time, a paper bag of Chinese food in tow. Sherlock stood the moment he heard footsteps on the stairs, envelope with the other John’s letter in hand, ready to hand it over the moment John crested the stairs, but John didn’t even look in his direction. He went straight through the kitchen door, dropping his keys and bag on the kitchen table as he shed his coat. He must have read the text message by now. He couldn’t even look at Sherlock.

“You know,” John said, though he seemed more interested in the remnants of the newspaper than in Sherlock (oh God, here it came), “I think there may be something to this sleep study idea. I woke up in my office at one, and the receptionist seemed to think I had just returned from lunch.” 

Sherlock blinked. That was the clue that tipped John off? Shouldn’t he have been surprised at Sherlock’s text? Surely he wasn’t ignoring it. Perhaps it didn’t go through, but Sherlock was too nervous to retrieve his phone to check. Besides, there were more important matters to address.

John walked through to hang up his coat and finally noticed Sherlock standing stock still with the envelope. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock crossed the room and thrust the letter towards John. “Here.”

John wrinkled his nose at the envelope, but he took it. “What’s this about?” He flipped it over to find where the other John had signed his name across the seal. He scoffed, twirling the paper in his fingers to face the signature towards Sherlock. “Nice forgery. I bet you’re pretty proud.”

“That’s not—“ Sherlock began, but John shoved the note into Sherlock’s chest and walked away, clattering plates together as he pulled them down from the cabinets.

John ripped into the bag and threw an egg roll onto each plate. “It’s one thing to forge my signature, but to show it off? What— Why—“ He laughed. “Only you, that’s certain.” He spun, yanking open the flatware drawer. “Why are we out of big spoons?”

Sherlock smoothed the envelope against the kitchen table. “John, open the envelope.”

“Why?” John stabbed a fork into a box full of noodles, but then he paused. “What is it?”

“I’m hoping that’s what the letter inside will explain.”

John side-eyed Sherlock for quite a while before sliding the envelope towards himself. “I swear, if this is some sort of prank…”

“It’s not. But before you do…” Sherlock fetched a swab, a test tube, and tweezers. “I need samples.”

John boggled. “What the hell is this?”

“I need data. If I can compare your hair and DNA, I hope to be able to discern what’s happening.”

“What is happening?”

Sherlock tugged at his hair before scrubbing his hands through it. “Just read what’s in the envelope.”

John’s eyebrows shot to his hairline, but instead of fighting or saying something sarcastic he just said, “Fine,” dumped noodles on his plate, and sat in front of it as he ripped into the envelope.

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied as he passed behind and plucked a hair from John’s head.

Certainly John had some sort of reaction to that, but Sherlock was too busy placing this fresh hair and the one from the bearded John side by side on a microscope slide. He’d barely gotten the microscope set up and focused before John spoke.

“So I’ve been… dissociating?”

“At the surface it would appear so, but that doesn’t explain the facial hair.”

Sherlock surreptitiously peered over the microscope to spy John scratching at his chin, his face ashen. “What facial hair?”

“Oh. Doesn’t he mention it?” Sherlock’s heart jumped at what else the other John might have neglected to mention. “He has a beard.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and endeavored to concentrate on the specimens beneath the lens, though at first glance, he couldn’t see a difference, at least none that weren’t within the expected variation among hairs on the head of one individual. Of course, this test had no hope of being as accurate as an actual DNA test, but he’d had hope. Damn.

“Are there other differences?”

Sherlock’s thoughts ground to a halt. John sounded tense. Why would he sound tense?

Sherlock let out a long breath. What possible gain would the other John have from telling this John about their encounters? Surely the tension in John’s voice could be easily explained by the stress of the overall situation. No reason to believe otherwise at this juncture.

“There are some personality changes.” And back to the task at hand. If only there had been some difference in the hairs. Of course, the hair on his head didn’t appear to change between the two, for lack of a better term, personalities. Perhaps if this John quit shaving long enough for Sherlock to pluck a hair from his face. It had potential to get him new data before DNA results could get back to him. “How long do you think it would take you to grow your facial hair to… Half a centimeter ought to do it.”

“Um.” John’s brows scrunched together as he winced, like loose stitching at the bridge of his nose had been yanked tight. “I don’t know. Not long. It’s been growing a lot faster since your experiment blew up in my face.”

Sherlock gasped. “Of course. How could I be so stupid?”

Sherlock rushed past John’s surely baffled face to dive into the pile of notebooks by his chair. It had to be here somewhere. The top three were reference books; he tossed them aside. The next, a personal journal; he slid that under his chair. An old bruising experiment, notes from a case, one that John borrowed to outline a blog post: all flung away.

Sherlock jumped at the sound of John’s voice above him. “What are you doing?”

This pile was useless. Sherlock strode to the kitchen. There were some loose pages in there. Had he torn some out? “I need my notes.”

“Which ones?”

Damn it, they weren’t on the kitchen table either. “From the hair growth experiment. The foam. The timing fits.”

“Oh. I think Mrs. Hudson brought those up the other day. I put them in your desk.” A moment later, John appeared at Sherlock’s side with a thick pile of wrinkled pages held together with a binder clip. “She took them downstairs to dry, said she didn’t think they’d survive you cleaning up your mess, and she thought they looked important.”

“Wonderful.” Sherlock took the notes. “Thank you, John.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Sherlock unclipped the pages and leafed through them. God, these were a mess, ink runny and pages out of order. It would take him forever to decipher them let alone ascertain which version of the formula had been the one to explode in John’s face.

“Sherlock.”

Why hadn’t he numbered the pages? “Yes?”

“This letter says…” John cleared his throat. “It says you and I, well, that we had sex.”

Sherlock’s eyes remained on the notes, hands shuffling and sorting, but his focus had shifted. “Technically, since we’ve established there are two distinct personalities with their own sets of memories—“

“My penis was in your anus.”

Sherlock struggled to speak through his rapidly closing throat, but he managed to keep his voice cool, at least, well enough that John wouldn’t notice. “That’s correct.”

“Did we use condoms?”

God, Sherlock hadn’t even thought to ask. He would have expected himself to be more pragmatic, but then, he never was one to use caution when he was excited. “No. But I’ve made it clear that it won’t be happening again.”

“Oh.” Sherlock peered from under his lashes to see John frowning and nodding. “Good. And, um, have you been tested since…”

“My latest drug spree? Yes. Mycroft insisted on it. Waste of time, really. I’ve never had any trouble procuring fresh needles.”

John paused for a long time, and Sherlock was too nervous to look. The cat was out of the bag now, and Sherlock didn’t need to see John’s disgust to know it was there. The frown he’d spied when he couldn’t resist peeking had been more than enough to confirm his suspicions. No matter what the other John insisted, he had desires that the original John simply did not.

So, without looking up, Sherlock gathered his notes and strode for his bedroom. “I need to go to my mind palace.”

***

Two weeks later, Sherlock was no closer to an answer. Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely true. He’d learned that the facial hairs were a match. Also, thanks to a quick expedition by Mycroft, he’d discovered that the DNA between the two samples were also the same. So, despite the difference in physical characteristics, he was still fundamentally the same.

After much cajoling, both Johns had allowed Sherlock to take blood samples, but the results there were unsurprising: a slight elevation in testosterone and dopamine levels. And although he’d discovered which formula had been the one to cause the issue, he hadn’t been able to reproduce the reaction that caused the foam.

There were, however, two things he’d determined with some certainty. First, despite some obvious differences, both personalities seemed to be John. They approached the world from the same perspective, had the same tics, took their tea the same way. All other differences could be easily explained by increased aggression and decreased inhibitions.

Second, Sherlock was absolutely and without question addicted. John’s touch was like heroin, and Sherlock sought it just as ardently. He brushed against John whenever possible. He asked John to pass him things just for the excuse of feeling his skin. Of course, it was easier to get what he wanted from the bearded John, but he was more afraid to seek it. Any brief touch with the clean shaven John would stop there, but anything with the other John would inevitably escalate. Either way, it was only a matter of time before Sherlock gave into temptation, unless he could solve it. Unless he could either merge the two or eliminate one personality, he couldn’t have either, and despite his own desire for scientific impartiality, he knew which one he was rooting for.

Or perhaps he could determine which one was the primary personality because as far as he could see it, there were two possibilities. Either John’s personality split, leaving both personalities incomplete, or only one was incomplete, having some part of his personality stripped. Given the uncharacteristic behaviour, and despite Sherlock’s own hopes, it was clear that the John with the beard was an altered personality. The question then became whether the clean-shaven John was altered as well. He did seem calmer than usual, less prone to anger, more content in domesticity. He didn’t push cases on Sherlock; he didn’t seem eager to seek danger. But were those desires no longer present, or was he just more content because the other John was fulfilling those for him? (Because yes, Sherlock had taken on every cheating spouse case that had come through his mailbox in the past two weeks to keep John from crawling the walls and to keep Sherlock from crawling into bed with him. Which had mixed results. It kept them busy, but God, John was sexy confronting scumbags, and even sexier fixing Sherlock’s abraded knuckles and split lips.)

There was one possibility…

“How many men have you brought to orgasm?”

John choked on his toast. “What?”

“From your reaction, I believe you heard me.”

“Yes, well. It was a surprising question.”

“Would it be less surprising on a reiteration?”

“No.” John pushed back his plate and braced himself on the table. He cleared his throat. “Three. Including you.”

Hmm. Somehow, that was both fewer and more than Sherlock had expected. “Seems an odd number for someone who so vehemently insists he’s not gay.”

“Three is always odd.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Not funny.”

John rubbed his thumb against the bridge of his nose. “The first time I was drunk, and the second bloke… Well, I thought it was an anomaly. I didn’t expect it would happen again.”

“And now?”

“And now what?”

Sherlock swallowed. _Keep it together. Eyes front. Voice calm._ “Has it happened again?”

John’s chair screeched against the floor, and his dishes clattered into the sink so violently, Sherlock was surprised they didn’t break. “Do we have to do this?”

Sherlock dug his fingers into his thighs. “I need the data.”

“No. You don’t need this data. You don’t get to humiliate me ‘for science.’” He didn’t make the extra quotations with his fingers, but they were clear.

Interesting. He still had that anger within him. Sherlock could use this. He stood, crowded into John’s space at the sink. “Humiliated? Why? Because you want men or because you want me?”

John gripped the edge of the sink. “Don’t.”

“What is it, John? Are you upset that you fucked me, or that you didn’t?”

His knuckles turned white, his face red. “I mean it, Sherlock.”

God this was risky. Sherlock might be starting a fight that could destroy their friendship; he could be triggering the appearance of the beard; he could be gearing up for one of the top three fucks of his life. But, he wasn’t nervous or afraid, he was exhilarated. God, he’d always found John exciting like this, but combine that with the thrill of discovery and the possibility of sex, and he was buzzing.

“He licked my anus.”

John licked his lips. Excellent.

“He wouldn’t let me move while he did it. He made me hold my cheeks open. I probably would have orgasmed from it, but he had my balls in a vice grip, couldn’t stop talking about how much he’d like to put a cock ring on m--”

John clapped a hand over Sherlock’s mouth, his other hand threaded into the hair at Sherlock’s nape. Sherlock’s nostrils flared, his heart rate spiking in sudden fear that he’d pushed things to far. But John wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t yelling or fuming. He was holding Sherlock there, bodies so close that Sherlock could feel electrons passing between them, though John’s hands were technically their only points of contact. He stared at his own hand over Sherlock’s mouth, pupils blown wide, breaths short and fast. Sherlock’s fingers flexed at his side, torn between touching and waiting to see where this went.

“Why?” John asked, leaning every so slightly into Sherlock. “Why are you doing this?”

Though John didn’t immediately pull his hand from Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock didn’t give him the opportunity either. He ripped John’s hand away and used it to yank them together, chins bumping before Sherlock latched his lips to John’s.

He decided relentless was the way to go: overwhelm with sensation so John was more likely to listen to his wants than his misgivings. He held John’s hand behind his own back and licked and nibbled at John’s lips, gratified when John’s free hand tugged at his hair and John’s teeth tugged at his bottom lip. It was hard to say who was holding whom where. Sherlock’s scalp sang with the pinch of John’s fist in his hair, but his own fist remained steadfast around John’s wrist, and the gestalt made his cock throb, made it seek something solid to push against.

John yanked Sherlock’s hair, forcing his head back, stretching his neck, making him lose his footing, sending a shiver down his spine. In his distraction and—he had to face it—panic that the beard had made an appearance, Sherlock dropped John’s wrist, groping for his face, and as his fingers met with smooth skin, John spoke.

“I thought you didn’t want this.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “Why the hell would you think that?”

John’s free hand moved up to grasp Sherlock’s, press Sherlock’s fingers against his lips. “You said it wouldn’t happen again.”

Sherlock stood to full height, and John dropped the hand in his hair. His fingers crooked against John’s lips, and John allowed them ingress. “I told him it was both or neither.”

John pulled Sherlock’s fingers from his mouth, letting them leave a wet trail down his chin. “So if we-- And he makes a reappearance…”

“Will that be a problem?”

John shook his head. “I can do you better than he can.”

Sherlock chuckled, but he grabbed onto John’s arse, pulling them flush. “Prove it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it got posted by a holiday. The wrong holiday, but still.
> 
> Thank you to my beta, besina, and thank you to those who have been waiting for this to update. I'm marking this as complete, though I won't discount the possibility of eventually posting the sex scene that would inevitably come (har har) after (where Sherlock's magic butthole cures John, spoiler alert, like it wasn't obvious where this was going).

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta, besina.


End file.
